


Bobbing for Criminals

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costumes, First Time, Halloween, Het, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween fic!  Sherlock and John  go to a party. Crack and smut  ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bobbing for Criminals

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this porn to 1) [](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/profile)[**windfallswest**](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal ideas and 2) [](http://vulgarweed.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vulgarweed.livejournal.com/)**vulgarweed** who indirectly inspired me.

**Title:** Bobbing for Criminals  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** het  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** post series 2  
 **Author's Notes:** I dedicate this porn to 1) [](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/profile)[**windfallswest**](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal ideas and 2) [](http://vulgarweed.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vulgarweed.livejournal.com/)**vulgarweed** who indirectly inspired me.  
 **Summary:** Halloween fic! Sherlock and John go to a party. Crack and smut ensue.

 

 

"You're going to a party,” Sherlock states.

John looks up from his morning paper. “Not your most impressive deduction, I have to say. My costume's been sitting out for a week now.”

Sherlock frowns. Then, “Oh. No. I mean that you're going to one.”

John has this fun game where he sees how long he can go without rolling his eyes at Sherlock. He always loses eventually, though, so it can't be all that fun. “Yes,” he says patiently. “With Lenore.” Sherlock hasn't even blinked. “Who is my date.”

“I am.”

“Sorry?”

“Your date.”

“Ha ha, no. No, you're not."

“If we're attending an event together, that makes me your date.”

“No it doesn't. Unless you've been sleeping with me behind my back.”

Sherlock huffs. “ _What_ should I call myself then?”

“Oh, I dunno. Imposing, inconsiderate, narcissistic—something like that, probably . . . ”

“Must you always stray off topic, John? I knew you had plans with Lenore—now, you have _new_ plans with me. And we really will have to get you something decent to wear."

“What makes you think I'm going to drop everything just to go trick-or-treating with you?”

Sherlock gives him a significant look.

“Shut up. I'm not about to stand her up.” John returns to his paper. "Again."

“No, indeed," Sherlock says. "Call her first, obviously.”

"Sherlock, this—"

"It's for a case . . ."

“Sherlock—”

“It will very likely be dangerous.”

John laughs. “You have _got_ to get a new tactic."

Sherlock strolls over to the mantelpiece, dusts at it nonchalantly. “Right, then. I suppose I'll just have to go it alone and hope for the best. I'm sure I won't need any help . . .”

*

A few hours later—some of them spent, horrifically, in a Halloween-saturated shop with Sherlock—John finds himself fending off passive aggressive texts from Lenore while following Sherlock and dodging unsympathetic passersby. The Hampstead streets were ravished by autumn, rain-dampened leaves clumping on the pavement and clogging up cobblestones. No matter how hard the army of street sweepers and little old ladies with rakes tried, the leaves would keep on falling.

It smells like autumn, too, faint strains of it peeking through those thick bitter city smells that never quite went away, and although it wasn't anywhere near freezing John could still feel the cold on his nose and cheeks and ears.

Sherlock is not what you would call dressed appropriately.

Sure, he's wearing jeans. Perfect fitting jeans that they'd dashed into a brightly lit and overpriced shop to purchase, and now all John could think about was how clearly price really did matter when it came to sartorial quality. Or maybe it was just Sherlock. Or maybe it was just John's unflagging dry spell talking, which was, incidentally, also because of Sherlock.

Sherlock's T-shirt isn't particularly tight, although it does cling at his sides when he turns. It's white but perfectly opaque and doesn’t feature that deep V-neck fashionable people seem so fond of nowadays. The collar is different from Sherlock's usual button-up shirt, and the skin it reveals has a different aesthetic than when Sherlock's top few buttons came undone by accident or by fault of his fidgety nature. It exposes more of Sherlock's clavicle than that does, and John can better see the way muscle and tendon work under his skin.

Speaking of Sherlock's skin . . . Normally Sherlock drew you in with that surreptitiously ethereal, borderline vampiric pallor, and that made it especially odd to think that right now John found himself focused on the contrast of Sherlock's bright white shirt to skin that's unexpectedly tanned and vibrant.

Sherlock has a very realistic purple bruise on his face which highlights his left cheekbone nicely, a bloody slash across his throat, and precise little blemishes here and there made with makeup. He'd dragged John to St Barts to acquire some mortician's wax and they'd been busted by Molly Hooper within minutes. She'd glared Sherlock's protests away quite impressively and applied the wax and makeup herself while a myriad of suspicious expressions crossed Sherlock's face. When he'd tried to dictate the specifications to her she'd snapped that she remembered the body very well, actually, having done the autopsy. She of course executed everything perfectly and _that_ had shut Sherlock right up. He'd even said _Thank you_ before they'd left.

Other than the bruises Sherlock has little scratches all up his arms, which he'd coerced John into inflicting on him for real because Sherlock had bitten his own nails down too far in-between cases—" _No you can't use a pocketknife, John. These were  made by the killer's fingernails_."

There's a rope tied around his left wrist, along with what looks like a running watch, and he's sporting a pair of unfortunate flip-flops.

This is the elaborate picture John is met with when Sherlock rounds on him on the porch of the townhouse, circumstantially less pale with different clothes and random wounds and the same lit up eyes he had whenever they were on the case. Dusk descends in the background like it's trying to dampen Sherlock's presence.

“We are here to find one Ms Violet Smith. Her employer is hosting this 'spooktastic holiday bash', and we will find her in attendance."

“Okay, so what, she's wanted for murder or something?"

"No."

"What is it, then? Theft? Treason? Hipster sympathies?"

But Sherlock is already heading for the door. “She contacted me," is all he says.

Inside the townhouse it's very dark, heavy curtains drawn over the windows and battery-powered candles as the only source of light. There's a decent crowd milling around the slightly upscale living room, drinks in hand and all in fancy dress. There are Avengers practically everywhere John turns.

Sherlock sighs, thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It's very odd to witness, especially because of how tight they are. John blinks and forces himself to pay attention to what Sherlock is saying. "I don't see her. John, do you see her?"

"Well, I don't know she looks like, do I?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. His shirt keeps riding up whenever he cranes his neck to search the crowd, revealing the sharp edge of a hipbone.

John summons up some exasperation. “I still can't believe you're wearing that. It's eleven degrees out."

“You can't? I suggest you take a look around at some of the female guests."

"Let's just keep the sexism to a minimum while were here, okay?" John might get a replacement date out of this yet, considering his own costume.

Sherlock points blatantly across the room, and the rope around his wrist hits a passing partygoer in the face. "Look at them! I _know_ you've noticed them. I'm almost certain every one of the Village People has been represented here tonight by a twenty-something in a bikini."

"You know who the Village People are?"

"There was this case—"

"On second thought I'm not sure I even want to know."

"What was I supposed to wear? Some manner of pedestrian 'sexy nurse' getup?"

An image comes unbidden into John's mind, and Sherlock's demanding stare isn't helping. "Yes, all right, whatever. You're right, everyone's stupid. Moving on."

"I don't see you complaining about your costume," Sherlock points out, a bit too complacent for John's liking.

"Well I would, but I know you'll have something annoyingly logical to say about it, so—"

"We couldn't have you go as a doctor because a doctor carrying a gun is highly suspicious. Not to mention because it was painfully uninventive, you just digging up your old scrubs."

"Fair enough, but I doubt I'm going to pull this off." John gestures at himself. "Doctor is, you have to admit, rather more believable."

Sherlock gives him a once over. "You're wrong." Then his face changes, having spotted something somewhere behind John. "Go," he says. "Make passes at intoxicated women or whatever it is you do when you go out." And he disappears into the shadowy crowd before John can protest.

John sighs and takes a begrudging look around. He might as well try, considering Sherlock's already destroyed his chances with Lenore with military precision, as usual.

A costume catches his eye, and then the woman at the punch bowl who's wearing it does too. John straightens his tie and goes over.

"Hello there," she says, tipping her hat to him. She'd looked less . . . jailbaity from across the room.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," John says.

She laughs, pulls shiny brown hair over her shoulder to toy with. "I'm Phoebe, actually. But you're right. He's just fantastic, isn't he? And I never believed all that talk about him killing himself, not for a second. Oh everyone always says that now, but I've been a true believer all along, I swear. What about you? You a fan?"

"You could say that."

"Ugh, don't you just hate how they _still_ refuse to let out all the details of how he did it? I mean, what does it even matter, now? Ooh I bet it was something just fantastically clever . . ."

It was, John is sure, but he always gets a little fuzzy on the details. Probably because whatever had really happened got mixed up with dreams and hopes and every heartstopping moment he'd thought he'd seen a ghost before Sherlock really had returned. John had thought of Sherlock sitting up on the pavement with blood dripping down his face and rolling his eyes at John for not knowing it was a trick. He'd thought of coming home to Sherlock sitting at his computer and not even saying hello after thinking him dead for months. He'd thought of Sherlock finding him suddenly on the street and saying nothing the whole time John had screamed at him.

John still has trouble remembering what the truth is.

"You like the outfit? I made it myself." Phoebe runs her delicate hands down her bare sides, then twists to make the very short skirt jostle back and forth. Other things jostle in the process.

"It's . . . yes." John clears his throat. "Why that material, though? Isn't it, er, itchy?" John wonders at all the tweed. He's sure Sherlock has never voluntarily owned anything approaching tweed.

"It goes with the hat, don't you think?" Phoebe plucks at her little cape, and the off-the-shoulder cut of her top makes it clear she isn't wearing a bra.

"Oh, it goes."

"So, stranger," she intones. "Who're you, then? Dressed to the nines."

John smiles. "Guess."

"Hmm . . . a runaway groom?"

John laughs. "Nope."

"One of those butlers or whatever on Downton Abbey?"

"Er, no."

"Ooh ooh, I know! You're Doctor Who, you've got to be."

"I don't think that's his name . . ."

"Oh come on," Phoebe says, leaning in closer so John can smell her perfume. "Give me a hint."

"I have a license to kill?"

"Ah, got it! James bloody Bond." She turns demure. "Wow, you must think I'm awfully dim."

John laughs, because God she smells good. "Seriously, how could you not get James Bond from this?"

"I mean, Daniel Craig doesn't lo—well, dress like that. You know?"

Yes he does. "Right."

"It's just the bow tie threw me off I think."

"Right, right. You do remember when Sean Connery was Bond?"

"Sean who?"

"Yeah . . . you know, I think I'd better go and see where my date has got to, actually."

John finds Sherlock easily enough, given his height and the brightness of his shirt in a swarm of people dressed as various black-cloaked creatures of the night.

"There's a scantily clad young lady dressed as you, over there," John tells him.

"Oh?" Sherlock glances over. "Type B. Dull."

John watches him watching the party guests for a long time. Sometimes he forgets to be grateful that Sherlock's still alive. It's like nothing at all as happened, sometimes. "So are you frolicking through your mind palace at the moment or just standing alone in the middle of a party for no reason."

"I'm not alone," Sherlock murmurs, which comes off as sentimental but is really just because he's not giving John his full attention.

As if on cue, a man who doesn't appear to be dressed for the occasion walks up to them, pocketing his phone. “Violet's on her way. Traffic, I guess. Thanks again for helping out with this, Mr Holmes. She's going out of her mind, a bit."

"Happy to help," Sherlock says.

The man buys it. "Sorry—what are you going as, then?" he asks. "I've been trying to figure it out, thinking it was something obvious, but honestly I've no idea."

Sherlock beams, for real this time. "I'm Leonard Hanley, the final victim of a little known but notably sadistic serial killer named Ward Nathans. His MO was very particular. Unlike most criminals of this sort, who hunt their prey among the dregs of society—prostitutes, homeless, and the like—he sought out victims who were close to their families. He would then abduct his carefully selected targets, hogtie them and deposit them—again uncommon—somewhere within earshot of their families. Usually in the trunk of a car but occasionally in a closet or other commensurate space. Nathans, who was trained as a surgeon, slit his victims' throats, but not the carotid arteries—he was extremely precise in that he only severed the vocal cords to prevent them from screaming. Thus silenced, he left them there to exsanguinate and left their families with the knowledge that they'd been mere feet away and could conceivably have done something had they been aware of the situation. Leonard Hanley, however, was marginally more lucky than his predecessors. He was diabetic, and used a watch timer to remind him to take his medications. The alarm went off and alerted his family to his presence. Leonard's description of his abductor led the police straight to him. He bled out on the way to hospital, of course."

"Oh. Oh, right." The man is clearly struggling. "So . . . this is a tribute to the victim of a mass murderer? That's actually pretty cool, man, honoring his bravery like that."

"This is a Halloween costume," Sherlock says flatly.

John jumps in: "So! What's yours, then? Or, sorry, did you not dress up?"

The man draws himself up. "I'm Netanyahu's red line. See?" He's wearing a shirt with a single red stripe across it. And Sherlock had thought John wearing scrubs was taking the easy way out?

"Who?" Sherlock says, too typically for John to be endeared by, at the moment.

"Never mind," John insists, to both of them.

The man makes his excuses (work in the morning, supposedly) and leaves without John ever learning his name. Sherlock stands exactly where he's been standing, shooting down John's attempts at conversation simply by refusing to respond. After a few minutes John even considers seeking out Sherlock's half-naked female counterpart, who might not have had much to say, but it least she spoke to him.

"Mr Holmes?" A tiny blonde woman in a refreshingly concealing, if skin-tight, lycra ensemble taps Sherlock on the shoulder. "Cyril told me what you'd be wearing. I'm Violet. So nice to finally met you in person."

"Likewise," Sherlock says, which is courteous enough, but then he adds, "What are you supposed to be?"

"Shanaze Reade?" Violet indicates her blue and white jacket. "The BMX rider?" Sherlock's still staring, and she giggles. "She was in the Olympics a few months ago, you may have heard of them?"

"Really I don't know why you people expect me to keep up on whatever fleeting sport fads you voluntarily waste your lives on. You could've been anyone, there's nothing at all distinct about your costume, in fact you may as well have showed up in a sheet and gone _Boo!_ "

John pulls him aside by that idiotic rope that's dangling from his wrist. "Please don't make me swat you with a rolled up newspaper when we're in public. Just nod and pretend you know what everyone else is talking about. That's what we all do with you, so at least return the favor, right?"

When they turn back to Violet she's staring at John. "Who's this?"

"My date," Sherlock said smugly.

"Definitely not his date. Hello, I'm John," John says, pushing past Sherlock to shake Violet's hand. "I'm here alone, too."

"Cyril is her boyfriend, John."

Violet looks uncomfortable for a moment. John takes the opportunity to facepalm.

"As I said in my email, Mr Holmes, I've been followed home for weeks now. It doesn't even matter if I change things up and take the Tube or a detour or something—he's always there. I'm certain it's one of Mr Carruthers's friends, but I'm afraid I haven't any proof other than knowing first hand what a nonce he is. He has, regrettably, come by the house a few times when I was tutoring. He'll just lean in the doorway and leer at me, but he never says anything. God, it's creepy. He's over there, the pirate." There is indeed a pirate lurking in the shadows, watching Violet from afar as sleazily as possible. She shudders. "In fact I'd really rather not stay if he's here." She looks over her shoulder at the pirate again. "I have got to say hello to Mr Carruthers, but then I'm out of here. I've another party to go to, thankfully. Do let me know as soon as you find anything out." Violet nods to them and hurries away. She talks quickly to a man dressed as a priest and hugs him before heading out.

"Come on," Sherlock says, making a beeline for the priest.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock greets, shaking Carruthers's hand. "Why you must be Mr Carruthers himself. Violet's told me _so_ much about you!"

"Good things, I hope," Carruthers smiles. It feels like a part of his costume.

Sherlock laughs just as artificially. "Of course, of course. Oh and, do remind me, how long has she worked for you? I mean, you must know each other quite well indeed to warrant inviting a girl who's, hm, twenty-three years your junior to a party with you."

"Well, Violet is very mature," Carruthers says smoothly, but his eyes go on the defensive. "She's been tutoring our daughter for a few months now, and she's come to be like one of the family, really. Violet doesn't need the job, of course—her father has money to spare—but she loves to teach, and she's damn good at it."

"Like one of the family, eh?"

"Why yes." Carruthers's smile begins to strain. "Violet's a charming young woman, and it's a pleasure to know her."

"I'm sure it is," Sherlock says guilelessly.

Carruthers stops acting like a priest. "You know, Mr Busybody Holmes, I might ask just who the hell you think you are, actually, because I know for a fact you weren't on the guest list, and I'm starting to doubt whether you even know Violet at all. Why, for all I know, you're the one who's been stalking her!"

"Got off work early today, did you?"

" _What_?"

"Oh, but you must have done to come home and prepare all this. The last time I checked, Halloween isn't a bank holiday. Not that this is a particularly impressive venue, mind you, but it surely took some effort."

"Listen, if you're just another disgruntled low-life behind on your mortgage payments, you can go ahead and shove off, because it's not actually my problem. I do my job, you do yours."

"I will." Sherlock studies Carruthers like he does corpses, which is in some ways more disturbing. Having got whatever he was looking for, he turns on his heel—well, flip-flop—and walks away.

John expects them to leave the party, but instead Sherlock hightails it up the stairs by the entryway. John follows him into a bedroom that has clearly been designated the coat room for the evening. There's a mountain of coats on the bed and a Sherlock tearing heedlessly through the closet.

"What are you looking for?" John asks.

"Carruthers is hiding something. Might find something telling in his coat. He's not wearing it at the moment, and he wouldn't have left it out while he was entertaining, not on the bed and certainly not downstairs in its usual spot, so it's got to be one of these."

"Well I'll have no part in it. I'm just here to keep watch." But after a few minutes John helps him rummage through the closet anyway, just to speed things along.

Sherlock chuckles. "Has it even occurred to you how inefficient it is to constantly question me on things you're just going to do anyway?"

John shrugs, shoulder nudging at Sherlock's in the process. "It gives me emotional security. Or maybe I just like the sound of your voice as much as you do. Hard to fathom, I know."

"Well, it's—"

John clutches Sherlock's arm. "Did that shadow just move?"

Sherlock freezes, then lurches forward to shove John into the closet without explanation, shutting the door behind them.

"Sherlock what the he—mmf." Sherlock's hand over his mouth makes talking a bit difficult. The rope digs into John's cheek.

" _You bloody tease,_ " comes a woman's sultry murmur. " _I've been waiting all night for this._ "

" _Me too,_ " says her companion, a gruff-voiced man. " _Oh fuck, yes._ "

There's the distinct jangle of a belt buckle. " _All right?_ "

" _Shit . . . God, do it faster._ "

" _Like that?_ " she says in a whisper, which is followed by a string of obscenely wet kissing sounds.

" _Ugh, why'd you have to wear this rubbish?_ " he groans. " _My God, how'd you even get into it?_ "

" _It's patriotic!_ "

" _I'm pretty sure I would've remembered it if Pippa had worn something like this. Here, just—oh shit that feels good—just get this out of the way. Mm, there we go._"

" _Oh, John_ ," she whines.

It's okay, John thinks frantically, maybe it's one of those blokes who spells it J-O-N. Yeah. This won't be weird at all, now.

" _Don't stop, Jon. God just keep going. Jon . . ._ "

It's not weird, dammit.

" _You're so fucking wet, fuck . . . how's that?_"

She lets out a strangled sort of moan. " _Yes, Jon, oh God Jon . . . yes . . . _"

John can hear their heavy breathing like it's mere inches away. Then he realizes that's partly because his own breathing's sped up considerably, which is only exacerbated by the fact that he can only breathe through his nose. He tears Sherlock's hand away from his mouth, which makes Sherlock jump, and that is startling in and of itself. John thinks he senses Sherlock staring at him in the long minutes that follow but can't be sure of much of anything there in the darkness of the closet. John _is_ sure he can feel Sherlock's breath ghosting over his hair, though, and it takes him ages to realize he's still got a death grip on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock starts to whisper something but John squeezes his arm a little tighter and he shuts right up. Somehow this is more fundamentally arousing than the explicit sounds coming from the other side of the door, and John fails to control his mind from spinning with possibilities—kissing Sherlock against the suffocating contents of the closet, Sherlock kissing him back in desperation and saying John's name the way the faceless woman having it off a few feet away from them kept doing.

As it is, he and Sherlock aren't doing anything but standing there touching at a single perfunctory point, and still John revels in Sherlock's mere nearness to a degree which is truly pathetic but _God_ how potential would hover there enticingly between them on occasion and all the time and always has and especially since Sherlock wasn't dead.

Hopefully J-O-N Jon mutters, " _Ah, I'm coming, I'm—_ " while the woman makes sweet high-pitched noises and from the sound of it comes as well. Their breathing evens out and John tries to follow suit, but the obvious hammering of Sherlock's pulse under his fingertips makes it difficult.

" _That was fantastic, Jon,_ " she says. Clothes shift and zippers zip up.

" _Likewise. Now come on._ "

The bedroom door opens and closes. Before John has time to think Sherlock breaks away and opens the closet door, too.

They step out and look around, then look at each other and then John has to look away, determined to pretend that none of that had actually happened. He tries to work out the brand new knot in his back and winces. "Ugh, this suit is somehow making it worse, too damn tight at the shoulders."

"Apparently a fancy dress party was the only way to get you into one," Sherlock says. John can feel his eyes on him. "That really shouldn't be the case."

"I _hate_ suits."

"You wear them well."

John laughs.

"Hm." Sherlock edges closer, but John won't look. "You misunderstand me. What I mean is, I'm experiencing a strong sexual attraction to you, right now."

Well. This was a bit of a change from Sherlock's usual rhetoric. "You . . . er . . . ahaha." How did you go about telling someone they looked gorgeous when they had a bruised face and a gory slash across their throat? Actually, Sherlock might appreciate it . . .

"I want to kiss you."

John does look up at that. "Er . . ."

"Let me."

Kneejerk: "Sherlock, I'm, ah, no offense, it's just that I'm not—"

"I know," Sherlock agrees. "Let me anyway."

Every part of John's body is paralyzed except his heart which starts hammering against his chest like crazy. Of course John had already made up his mind about it. Or at least he'd made up his mind not to resist when Sherlock tipped his head back easily and pressed his mouth to John's more softly than John would've thought. He moved his lips more slowly than John would've thought, too, lovely languorous ebb and flow of kissing and breathing and kissing again.

"Why are you doing this?" John says, surprised by how reedy his voice has gone.

"We _are_ out of the closet, now."

John snickers. "You're such a—mm." John kisses him back, kind of has to because this latest assault is indeed rather more like an assault. Sherlock pulls John hard against him, kisses him hard and oh Jesus, John can feel that he _is_ hard, too. Sherlock's tongue delves into John's mouth and John struggles to respond, runs his tongue against Sherlock's a little but is mostly too overwhelmed to do much more than melt pathetically against him.

"You want this," Sherlock says, asks, tells him?

"I don't know," John mumbles. "God, I don't know, I don't know . . ." But he kisses Sherlock again, so he must know a little.

When they part for air again Sherlock takes a step back, heavily and like he can barely tear himself away, which is even hotter than the kissing. Sherlock's mouth is wet and fuck does he look good in that really pretty morbid getup.

John, insanely, starts talking: "I thought you er, you didn't do . . . this."

"It's a natural reaction, John."

"Not for you."

"Of course it is. I usually refrain from indulging it, but you're here too, so that makes things convenient."

John snorts. "I'm flattered."

But John's irritation fades when Sherlock kisses him again, and this time John has the presence of mind to take control of the kiss, setting a different pace and getting Sherlock to moan into his mouth. John moans right back, tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair to angle his head and bites Sherlock's bottom lip just because it's there and luscious looking.

John doesn't think of much other than _more_ as he backs Sherlock up til they're at the bed, then shoves Sherlock down onto the coat-covered mattress, kisses at his neck because it's just too tempting but unfortunately the fake gash across Sherlock's throat poses some logistical problems, so he sits back after a minute to regroup.

Sherlock smirks up at him. "God you're easy."

"You know, I honestly do hate you sometimes," John says, looming over him and trying not to whimper at the feeling of Sherlock's hands running up his back and sides and chest.

"Don’t tell me you don’t find this . . . riveting . . ."

"Oh, you _are_ brilliant. Figured that out all on your own, did you?"

"I—" John silences him with a kiss, which tastes even better in this position where his neck isn't strained and where Sherlock is squirming under him.

Sherlock's hands keep moving, undoing John's bowtie and pushing his tuxedo jacket off, dancing ticklishly up John's sides again before taking John's gun out of its shoulder holster too sneakily for John to thwart him and tossing it carelessly aside.

"That can't be safe," John says, desire starting to wane. They were in somebody's house, for God's sake. Anyone could just . . could just walk in . . . _oh_.

"Not safe at all." Sherlock grabs the ends of John's tie and pulls him down for another kiss.

John kisses back, leaves an apologetic peck on Sherlock's chin before pinning his hands above his head. He shifts to kiss up Sherlock's arm, breathing against the sensitive skin of his wrist, which has painted-on rope burns that have been direly smudged by now. John moves to the other arm and gives it the same treatment, tugs at the rope to turn Sherlock's hand over. That stupid diabetic watch timer blinks the time at him.

“Why the hell do you have this thing, anyway?” John asks, tapping it.

"It's— _ah_."

John's sucked one of Sherlock's fingers into his mouth, lets up to say, "I didn't catch that."

"I acquired it from a case not too long . . . oh." John licks up and down its length. "I. It's useful for . . ." Sucks just at the tip of his finger before taking it all in and Sherlock inhales shakily. " . . . timing experiments." Swirling his tongue around it and Sherlock's free hand grips John's bicep reflexively.

"John." His voice is so fucking delicious like this. John grabs the hem of Sherlock's shirt, starts to pull it up but Sherlock stills his hands. "Stop it! You'll ruin my costume."

John laughs, then frowns. "Oh God, you're serious." Sherlock is glaring at him, and John isn't about to point out that his makeup is already utterly wrecked, smeared garishly across his face and accentuating his already high color. "Sherlock, come on." John slides his hands up under the thin material, leaves light caresses over Sherlock's chest to make him shiver, which they do, and takes advantage of his inattention to try to get his shirt off again.

" _John_!" Sherlock hisses, decidedly not swooningly.

''Okay, okay! Fine." Sherlock's still glaring, chest heaving and eyes wide and John's not about to just give up. "Let's see how much you protest if I do this."

John slides down Sherlock's body before Sherlock can launch a counterattack, unzips Sherlock's jeans and yanks them down, then gives Sherlock's pants the same treatment. John settles himself more comfortably on the floor and hauls Sherlock's body to the edge of the bed. He ignores Sherlock's cock at first, nosing at the insides of his thighs and licking at a sharp hipbone before planting descending kisses from Sherlock's navel, mouthing up Sherlock's length and closing his lips around the head of his cock.

Sherlock's expression is absolutely worth everything he puts John through, especially when John swirls his tongue like he had with Sherlock's finger. Sherlock sits up on his elbows to watch him, and his gaze always feels physical, but even more so under these circumstances. John takes his cock in deeper, sucks on the upstroke and settles into a steady up and down that Sherlock seems to approve of, given the desperate noises caught on the edges of his every gasping breath.

John manages to keep moving his head as he unbuckles his own belt, pulls his cock out and pumps it disjointedly, just enough to give himself some relief. When he glances up at Sherlock it's clear he can't decide where to look, those eyes and his wild hair and fake blood just everywhere.

John takes as much of Sherlock's cock as he can, holds the base steady and finds a faster rhythm. He can actually feel it getting harder under his tongue, can taste the salty precome leaking from the tip so he pauses to lap it up.

"Fuck," Sherlock gasps in the background. He keeps trying to thrust up into John's mouth but John holds him down, can't continue sucking as hard as he had been but moves faster over Sherlock's cock to make up for it and Sherlock tenses and struggles and comes.

John backs off, almost chokes on it but manages to swallow, and of course Sherlock hadn't thought to warn him, the bastard. He was probably going to zip up and leave John there out of his mind with lust. John's too turned on to care very much one way or the other, though, so he focuses on jerking himself, hard and steadily.

There's a _whumpf_ and Sherlock's landed on the floor beside him, taking several coats with him. A lime green puffer jacket hangs off his shoulder but does nothing to mitigate the predatory look he's turned on John. John pushes it off as Sherlock pushes him horizontal with a very thorough kiss.

"I can taste it," Sherlock says, then licks deeper into John's panting mouth. He bats John's hand away and wraps his fingers around John's cock. John groans, overheating, nudges his hips up beggingly.

Sherlock pumps John's cock firm and relentless and perfect, kisses him the whole time, even when John clutches at him and whispers, "Like-that-like-that-like-that," and comes with a shout that's fortunately muffled by Sherlock's mouth.

John gets lazier about kissing back, but he still makes a vague little noise of protest when Sherlock pulls away wetly to stare at him. He's completely focused on John, or at least it seems that way, and he's flushed and unbearably lovely.

Footsteps, then, and coming from the hallway.

"Shit," John says, scrambling to pull himself together. Sherlock stands up and does the same, chucks John's tuxedo jacket at his head and hands him his gun without really waiting for John to take it. John follows him woozily into the hall.

Sherlock stalks downstairs to the party like he hasn't just had an orgasm, and John keeps following, still quite aware that he _has_ just had one and knowing he should say something like _We should talk about this_ , but unable to find the right collection of words to hold Sherlock's interest, given his current state.

Sherlock finds Carruthers and the pirate chatting beneath a lame cotton spider web.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," Carruthers ingratiates. That pirate really does look shifty as hell, no wonder Violet had been wary of him. "I'd _thought_ you'd left. Oh, my apologies, I don't believe you two have been introduced—this is—"

"Jack Woodley, your friend and business associate, and by business associate I of course mean accomplice. He's an insurance broker, and he helps you siphon money from your clients' retirement savings. You didn't want his family to find out about those embarrassing pay cuts you took to your six-figure salary—which is still six figures, I might add—after the recession hit and seemingly the next logical step was to commence stealing from your clients. Only the ones who were relatively well off to begin with, though, and only from their pensions where they wouldn't notice it. That would be okay. So you enlisted Woodley's help because he's been doing this sort of thing for years. As for Violet, your daughter's new tutor seemed like a snooty little Sloan at first, so you felt no remorse in making plans to get at her father's money, but things went wrong when you took a liking to her, and especially when Woodley took even more of a liking to her, following her home and arousing her suspicions, effectively jeopardizing this little operation of yours. _And_ ,"—and Sherlock pauses, finally—"so, it has. I expect Ms Smith's lawyers will be in touch, and her father's as well."

Carruthers does a spot on impression of a fish, and the pirate's perpetual scowl starts to crumble.

Sherlock's teeth flash, very white. "Good evening."

John stares after him for a moment, unable to determine whether he's this breathless from the deduction itself or if it's just amplified by his post-coital daze.

John pushes past the throngs of people playing pretend, past the topical costumes and the old standbys and the sexy whatevers. It's properly nighttime outside, now, but he spots Sherlock a few less-brisk-than-usual paces down the street and sprints to catch him up.

"How long have you known?" John asks.

Sherlock casts a furtive glance his way. Leaves crunch under his flip-flopped feet, and even in the dark John can see the gooseflesh on his bare arms. "Since Ms Smith first contacted me," he says. "Really I don't know why people even come to me anymore when nearly all the information they need is accessible on the internet. It took less than an hour to locate Carruthers and his associate's activities online and see what they were up to."

"So why did you need to drag me here, exactly?"

"Would you believe I just fancied an outing?"

"Nope."

After a pause Sherlock says, "Violet was quite insistent I see her suspected stalker in the flesh, and the client is always right."

"Er, since when?"

"If she had known how very easy it would've been to work the whole thing out herself, she wouldn't have required my services, and your subsequent blog entry would be rather less impressive, don't you think?"

"Very easy, was it? You would've had to hack into Carruthers's computer at the bank to find all this out, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Fanciful computer virus engineers have been doing so for decades. Violet's a bright enough girl."

John moves on. "Okay, but why did we need to search his house for clues if you already knew what was going on?"

"It seemed properly detective-y, didn't it? People appreciate that sort of thing. And you never know, we might have found something."

"If you keep talking about doing what other people want I'm going to put out a missing persons report on Sherlock Holmes, because I'm not sure what's become of him."

"I don't do what people want _because_ they want it, John," Sherlock says, pushing through the considerable crowd. His face makeup is almost completely rubbed off. "I merely do what is expected by others in order to maintain a certain image, thereby making me appear to be trustworthy or predictable or whatever the occasion calls for."

John shakes his head. "Oh never mind, there he is."

They're silent for the rest of the block, but at a red light John can sense Sherlock watching him out of the corner of his eye. "You think that includes us having sex just now."

The substantial pack of people waiting for the light to change turn a wide away of scandalized expressions on the two of them so John gets a hold of Sherlock's stupid rope to lead him across the street prematurely. "No," he says, unconvincing even to his own ears, "it's just—"

Sherlock sighs, doesn't wait til they're completely clear of the street to stop short and nearly trip John up and kiss him. Sherlock's body is so much warmer than the chilly air, and his mouth is so much more reassuring and present than the way he talks and acts and is.

A taxi beeps at them and they stumble out of the way. Laughter bubbles up crazily in John's chest while Sherlock just grins at him and says, "Come on."

*


End file.
